


Death and All his Friends

by chancellorclarke



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chancellorclarke/pseuds/chancellorclarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it starts:</p><p>The woman is walking home from work after a long shift at the hospital. The driver, too drunk to notice that it’s a red light, too drunk to notice the woman crossing the street in plain sight, keeps his foot pressed on the gas pedal. And Root, perched on the roof of the Empire State Building, watches this all from above. She knows that she should let it happen, she knows. Her duty is to God, not to humanity—not to her. But that night, whether it be fate or simple impulse, Root does something she isn’t supposed to do.</p><p>She saves her.</p><p>Angel!Root, Doctor!Shaw AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU I didn't know I wanted to write until now.

This is how it starts:

The woman is walking home from work after a long shift at the hospital. The driver, too drunk to notice that it’s a red light, too drunk to notice the woman crossing the street in plain sight, keeps his foot pressed on the gas pedal. And Root, perched on the roof of the Empire State Building, watches this all from above. She knows that she should let it happen, she knows. Her duty is to God, not to humanity—not to her. But that night, whether it be fate or simple impulse, Root does something she isn’t supposed to do.

She saves her.

 

 

*

 

 

The truck crashes into her scapulars and she winces from the impact, closing her eyes as she tightens her hold on the woman, her wings curling reflexively around them. She feels the metal of the bumper, the crunch of the glass, the shards embedding themselves in her back—the pressure against her spine. She grits her teeth, wills herself to withstand the pain, just a little longer.

And then as quickly as it happens, it’s over. The truck rolls backwards unceremoniously, a faint groan emanating from the man in the car. She flexes her wings, assesses the damages she’s withstood. Her back is sore, and she still feels the remnants of glass shards under her skin.

It’s uncomfortable, but she’ll survive.

Root opens her eyes, looks down at the woman, fully expecting to find her shaking and frightened. But she doesn’t. Instead, she finds the woman oddly calm, staring back at her.  What’s even more strange is what comes out of her mouth. Not a scream, or a sputter, but a question of concern. For _her._

“Are you okay?” the woman asks.

Root’s lips quirk up, in both pleasant surprise and disbelief.

“I’m fine,” Root answers. She stands up, helping the woman up as she does. “Can’t say the same for him, though.”

Realization seems to dawn on the woman then, and her expression shifts—serious. She runs over to the man in the truck, assessing his wounds through the broken glass.

“We need to get him out,” the woman says urgently. She tugs roughly at the car’s door handle, but it won’t budge.

Root walks over unhurriedly. “What for?”

The woman walks around the car, trying to find another way to get the man out.

“He’s still breathing—he’s bleeding a bit, but he probably sustained internal bleeding from the impact.” The woman tries the passenger door, but still, no luck. She punches the car, frustrated. “If we can just get him to the hospital in time, I can still save him.”

Root cocks an eyebrow at her, before ripping the driver’s door off with ease, dropping it to the ground with a clank. “He almost killed you,” she points out.

The woman looks at her incredulously, her eyes widened with shock by what Root had just done to the door. Root tilts her head, curious, but the woman shakes her head, quickly recovering.

She runs over to Root’s side and unlocks the seat belt from the man.

“I’ve saved the lives of people who’ve tried to kill me in the past,” the woman tells her, pulling the man’s body out of the car and gently laying him down on the concrete. “It doesn’t matter to me,” she adds, ripping the arm sleeve of her white coat, wrapping it around the man’s thigh—a make-shift tourniquet, Root presumes. “A life’s a life.”

Root furrows her eyebrows at her response—perplexed—as the woman starts assessing the other wounds on the man. She talks as though she’s not one of them.  As though she’s not born with the same faults and flaws—as though she’s not bound by the same limitations as the rest of them.

Root watches the woman as she tilts his neck gingerly, keeping his airways clear.

This woman is human, she reminds herself. And humans are bound to sin.

She’s no different.

The woman searches through her coat pocket, and takes out her phone. She turns it on, only to frown in dismay. “I don’t have signal.”

Root smiles in amusement. “Who were you thinking to call?”

The woman looks at her, a mixture of disbelief and skepticism. “An ambulance,” she deadpans. “I was going to call an ambulance.” She stands up then, and starts pacing back and forth. Whether it’s because she’s nervous or she’s thinking, Root doesn’t know—though she assumes it’s the latter, because the woman suddenly lets out a frustrated growl, says, “He’s going to die on me.”

“Oh,” Root says in a dry tone, then after a moment: “Is that all?”

The woman stops in her tracks—as though she can’t believe what Root had just said—and responds with heavy sarcasm:

“Yes, that’s all. If you can somehow get us to a hospital in under thirty so I can keep him from dying, that’d be _great._ ”

The woman resumes her pacing, but Root stays standing there, looking at her pensively, genuinely considering this.

She’s done more than she should—more than she’s allowed to. Root knows this. And she knows that she’s going to face the consequences soon enough.

They always do.

But this woman—this woman who’s pacing back and forth like a mad woman, is far more interesting than any other human she’s met—and far more interesting than any angel she's ever met. Root doesn’t want this night to end.

She finds herself disregarding her concerns for the time being, and offers with a grin:

“I can get you there.”

Before the woman can ask what she means, before she knows what’s happening, Root envelopes both of them with her wings and teleports them to the nearest hospital.

 

 

*

 

 

Turns out, the nearest hospital is the same one that the woman works at. 

“What the hell was that?” the woman sputters, shoving Root away from her—or at least, she tries to. Root’s body, though, doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Root rolls her eyes at the woman’s attempt and calmly withdraws her wings back to their resting position, behind her back.

“You asked me to get you to the nearest hospital, so I did,” Root explains, her tone even, as though it’s a normal thing that’d just happened—teleporting.

“Bullshit,” the woman scoffs. “Not unless you’re some sort of angel,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Root smirks at her response, decides to entertain herself by playing along.

She cranes her neck around to her wings, then back at the woman. “Did my wings give it away?” she pouts, feigning innocence.

The woman’s face blanches. “You’re kidding me.”

Root gives her a look. “Did you think I was human this entire time?”

The woman groans, covering her face with her hands. “I thought they were some sort of decoration.”

Root smiles, amused by her logic. “And me stopping the car with my own body was…”

“Strength—luck, maybe,” the woman mumbles, to which Root laughs.

That’s ridiculous.

The woman uncovers her face, frowning, and gives her a pointed look.

“Fine, I get it. You’re an angel—whatever.” She crouches down, grabbing a hold of the man’s arm, brings it over her shoulders. “But if we don’t get this man inside, he’s going to die.”

Root watches as this woman tries to pull the man up, but struggles to do so.

Humans, Root thinks, rolling the eyes. She kneels down, wraps her arms underneath his knees and shoulders, and lifts him up with ease.

“Well?” Root asks, looking at her expectantly.

The woman gives her a sour look, mumbles petulantly, “Show off,” before leading the way to the hospital doors.

It’s not until they’re close to the hospital doors when the woman suddenly stops and says, “Wait,” holding her arm out in front of Root to stop her from going further.

“What?”

The woman turns towards her, takes off her white coat, and puts it over Root’s shoulders, hiding her wings beneath.

Root quirks an eyebrow at her in question.

“I need the staff to focus on him, not you,” the woman explains.

“Oh,” Root says, before shrugging. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, feels her the bones in her wings slowly pulling inwards. It’s not entirely comfortable—her wings retracting back into her body—but it’s manageable. When she feels them completely withdrawal, she opens her eyes, finding the woman watching her, a mixture of awe and something else Root couldn’t quite name.

She doesn’t dwell on it, though.

“Shall we?” Root asks, before she starts walking again, the woman quickly following beside her.

They reach the hospital doors, which open as they step across the doormat. A nurse passes by, and stops in front of them, her expression confused.

“Dr. Shaw?” the nurse asks, her tone unsure as she looks between Shaw, Root, and the man that Root’s carrying. “I thought you were off toni—“

“Get him onto a stretcher and order him a head CT,” Shaw directs.

 _Shaw_ , Root notes, filing it away in her memory as the nurse nods, rushing through the hallway of the hospital.

“Shaw!” a doctor greets with a grin—though it quickly disappears when he takes in the state of the body Root’s holding. “Whoa, what do we have here?”

“Car crash,” Shaw informs, just as the nurse returns with the stretcher. Root puts the body down onto it with a thud—she sees Shaw wince in the corner of her eye. When she looks up, she finds the nurse looking at her questioningly.

Root chooses to ignore her.

“You might need to operate on him, Cole,” Shaw adds.

Cole walks over to the stretcher, takes out a flashlight from his pocket, and clicks it on. He leans over the man, and opens his eyelid with his hand, shining light on the man’s eye with the other. He then repeats this procedure with the man’s other eye.

“His pupils aren’t equal,” Cole notes, clicking the flashlight off and putting it back into his pocket. “There’s probably bleeding in the brain, but I won’t know until I get in there.” He looks up at Shaw then, and grins, “He’s lucky you brought him here when you did."

“Actually,” Shaw says, nodding towards Root. “She did.”

Cole looks at Root, his smile dimming slightly—for what reason, Root doesn’t know.

Frankly, she doesn’t care.

“Then he has you to thank when he wakes up,” he says politely, before pushing the stretcher through the hallway.

Root hums offhandedly, watches him roll the stretcher towards the elevator. The metal doors ping open, and he walks in, pushing the patient inside. As the doors close, Cole waves them both goodbye, smiling and grateful.

It’s then that she realizes what she’d just done, and it washes over her like cold water.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here at all. She shouldn’t have done this, any of it. But she did—she’s gone and done something she had no right to do, wreaked chaos upon order.

A shiver runs down her spine, dread settling deep in her chest. She knows what happens next—she’s heard stories of this, of what they do. They’ll come after Shaw, undoubtedly. And Finch will ask for retribution, inevitably.

She has to go, before they find out, before they find _her._

She has to leave.

With her heart beating wildly, she decides to run while she can. But as she's turning around, as she’s about to rush out, she feels a hand grab her wrist, keeping her in place.

More specifically, Shaw’s hand.

Root looks at her, her eyes wide with fear.

Shaw narrows her eyes at her—she must’ve notice something’s changed. Root fully expects her to point it out, and she readies an excuse at the tip of her tongue. But Shaw doesn’t. Instead, she says, concern laced in her voice:

“I need to take a look at your back. You’re bleeding through the coat.”

Must be from the glass shards, Root thinks, before pulling her hand away roughly.

“It’ll heal,” Root says coldly. She turns towards the door—but Shaw grabs her wrist again, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t care,” Shaw says with finality. “You’re coming with me.”

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t stay here. She’s made enough mistakes tonight, and one of them will have to pay the price.

But Shaw’s looking at her expectantly, her eyes bright with reluctant and guarded hope, and before she can convince herself not to, before she can remind herself of the looming repercussions of what she’s done—of what she’s currently prolonging, Root finds herself nodding, being pulled by the hand by Shaw, letting her tend to her wounds.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Change into this,” Shaw instructs, throwing a hospital gown at her. 

Root catches it with her hands. She looks down at it, her face contorting disapprovingly, and drops it onto the bed.

“I don’t need it,” Root says, and starts taking off her coat.

“Hospital protocol,” Shaw orders.

 _Human_ protocols, Root corrects disdainfully in her head. One of the many rules they’ve created to govern themselves, out of necessity—out of spontaneity. Whichever the case, these protocols are things that she shouldn’t adhere to, much less subject herself to.

And that’s what Root’s about to say to her, but one look of Shaw’s face, and the words die at the back of her throat. It’s harsh—stern, daring Root to challenge her.

That’s one battle Root knows she’s not going to win.

So, she keeps her mouth shut, and with a huff, complies to Shaw’s request. She tears off the shirt she’s currently wearing swiftly, the fabric ripping in half, falling to the floor. She takes off her shoes and unbuttons her jeans, drags it down to her feet, and steps out of them. By the time she grudgingly picks up the gown, she notices that Shaw’s gaze is towards the floor, waiting for Root to get dressed.

Root chuckles to herself, causing Shaw to look up at her curiously—though she’s still careful not to look at her other parts.

“A doctor embarrassed by the female anatomy,” Root says liltingly, putting her arms through the sleeves, tying the strings at the base of her neck. “That’s a new one.”

Shaw crosses her arms, the beginnings of a frown on her face. It only makes Root laugh even more as she sits down on the hospital bed, though, because of how defensive Shaw’s being—only further proving her point. Shaw must realize the same, because she quickly uncrosses them, her ears tinged red, and starts moving towards the drawer, gathering her materials.

“Don’t wanna get sued,” Shaw justifies, grabbing a pair of tweezers from one of the drawers, then a roll of bandages and a metal pan. 

Root snorts, kicking her legs back and forth. “Like my kind would have the time to do that.”

“Just lie down on the bed,” Shaw says irritably, nodding at the end of the bed. “Your back facing up.”

Root tsks mockingly, but she does as she’s told. “Poor bedside manner, Doctor Shaw.”

Root can’t see much from this angle, but she hears footsteps coming closer, the sound of a chair being rolled towards her.

“Bit hard when you’re being a bad patient.”

Root hums absentmindedly, the back of her hands resting against her cheek. She hears Shaw sit down on the chair, setting the materials down on the metal stand with a clank. “Never had to be a patient before,” she notes.

“Wouldn’t think you’d need to,” Shaw says, widening the slit of the hospital gown towards Root’s sides to get a clearer view of the wounds. Her fingers graze lightly against Root’s skin as she does so and Root’s breath hitches slightly, a stark contrast to Shaw’s even breathing. Shaw doesn’t seem to notice. She continues her path to expose skin, her hands soft and warm against Root’s back, and Root’s body tingles from her touch. It’s soothing—gentle even, and it’s—

it feels comforting.

Root clears her throat, tries not to think about exactly what it means.

“I could use some practice,” Root says, trying to regain her composure as Shaw moves to grab the tweezer. She flirts, “Maybe you could play Doctor with me again, Doctor."

“Hopefully I won’t have to,” Shaw counters. She places her hand at the base of Root’s spine for balance, and starts pulling out the glass remnants with the tweezer. Root tenses from the feeling of the cold metal upon her back. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of this,” Shaw clarifies.

 _There won’t be,_ Root thinks to herself. Because Finch’s Reapers will come for them—for Shaw first. She’s prolonged Shaw’s life for longer than allotted. Her life was supposed to end on that road, by that truck. But now Shaw’s here, with her, extracting the glass from her back. She’ll be punished, she has no doubt about it, but Shaw—

Shaw’s on borrowed time, and Finch will take back what’s his soon enough.

“You got a name?” Shaw asks, pulling Root away from her reverie.

It takes a moment for Root to register what Shaw had asked her. Eventually, she says, “Root.”

Root sees Shaw nod from the corner of her eye.

“My name’s Sameen,” Shaw says, dropping a piece of glass from her instrument and into the metal pan. “Sam for short.”

Root closes her eyes, humming in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say much else. Shaw doesn’t seem to mind. She works in silence like that, the clanking of the glass hitting metal being the only sound in the room, and oddly enough, Root finds herself calmed by it all. The quiet. Her touch. Her breathing. It’s not a feeling she usually experiences, but here in this room, in Shaw’s presence, Root feels at peace, protected almost—even though she knows that their situation doesn’t warrant it.

It’s strange, and Root doesn’t know why she feels this way.

“So, is saving lives something you angels do?”

Root opens her eyes then, smiles humorously as Shaw works diligently on her back.

“I carry out God’s orders,” Root says vaguely.

“Did God order you to save me?”

It shouldn’t catch Root by surprise, the fact that Shaw asked her this question, and it doesn’t, but for some reason, she finds herself hesitating to tell the truth. A pause drags between them, and Shaw waits patiently for her answer.

Eventually, Root admits:

“No, She didn’t.”

“Oh.”

Shaw goes back to pulling the glass out of her back, and just like that, the conversation is dropped.

Root furrows her eyebrows in confusion.

She’d expected Shaw to respond in shock, or disappointment, or… _something._ That’s what humans do—that’s what they all do. They seek salvation when they cannot help themselves, turn to God and Her soldiers when they think they’re helpless, when they’re faced with obstacles they think are insurmountable. That’s how it’s always been, for as long as she can remember. That’s what the humans expect from them. And if they were ever to hear the truth—that God has Her own plans to manage, that Her soldiers have bigger problems to deal with than to have their lives revolve around humans—that’d surely make humans crestfallen, wouldn’t it? 

But that wasn’t the case with Shaw. With her, she responded with a simple “Oh.” Without expectation. Without anger. Without judgment. She said it as though it didn’t matter what her answer was going to be, as though she simply wanted to know.

And that’s not—that’s not how humans behave. That’s not how they react _,_ and yet that’s exactly how Shaw acts.

Root doesn’t know why Shaw’s an exception.

_A hospital, Root? Out of all places?_

Root blinks.

It takes a moment for her to recognize who it is. When she does, she smiles to herself. 

“Yes,” Root says aloud, huffing dramatically. “A hospital.”

Shaw looks at her strangely.

_Be there in a few seconds._

“What?”

Root turns her head around towards Shaw.

“Duty calls,” Root tells her, pushing herself up with her elbows. “Are you done, Sameen?”

Shaw nods, putting her tweezers down on the metal stand. She takes a step back from Root as Root swings her legs to the edge of the bed, sitting up. “Most of the glass was superficial on your skin. I removed all of it.” She grabs the roll of bandages. “I just need to wrap the bandages arou—“ 

“No need,” Root says, getting her coat and putting her arms through the sleeves. “It’ll heal on its own.”

Shaw shakes her head disapprovingly, but doesn’t say anything to stop her. Instead, she advises, “Next time, don’t run into moving trucks.”

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t,” Root reminds, stepping into her shoes.

Shaw goes quiet, then. She looks like she’s deep in thought, as though she wants to say something. Root watches her, curious as to what Shaw’s mulling over inside her head.

_I’m here._

Guess she won’t find out.

Root smiles softly at her. “Take care, Sameen.”

They’re empty words, an empty gesture—she knew as soon as they left her mouth. They’re meaningless, because Shaw will be lucky if she’s still alive in two weeks, let alone a month. But there’s nothing Root can do without risking her own life. These words are all she can give her.

Root notices Shaw frowns slightly, and as quickly as it shows, Shaw goes blank, her face, neutral.

“You too,” Shaw says. Root smiles at her one last time, before walking towards the door, Shaw watching her as she does. Her footsteps echo loudly in the silence, her heart beating heavy as the space between them increases. When she finally reaches the door, her hand on the handle, she finds herself, oddly enough, reluctant to leave.

_Are you coming outside?_

But she has to.

With a turn of the handle, she opens the door and exits the room, closing it behind her. She takes a deep breath, and starts walking down the hallway. She rubs her eyes, tries to clear her mind of her night, but as she rounds the corner, she collides to someone—hard.

 “Oof,” Root exhales, annoyed.

She looks up to see who she walked into.

“What happened?”

It’s Reese, and he’s looking at her, up and down. It’s apparent that he’s asking about the gown, and how she ended up here, out of all places.

Root shrugs, though still a little irritated that he hadn’t moved out of her way, and begins walking towards the hospital doors. “Just a little accident,” she waves off.

Reese looks at her disbelievingly, following next to her. “You never engage with humans willingly.”

“I had a change of heart,” Root says offhandedly.

Reese hums, still not believing her, but he doesn’t push any further. Instead, he changes the subject and informs her: “She asked us to scout out a couple of prophets.”

“Where?” Root asks, though in all honesty, she doesn't care where. As long as it's far away from here, far away from New York, she'd go without much of a fight.

Because the further she is from here, the longer it'd take for Finch to find her, and that's something she desperately wants to prolong as much as she can.

“Seattle.”

Root scrunches her face. “Never liked Seattle.”

“Yeah,” Reese says thoughtfully. “But you’ve always liked the rain.”

The hospital doors open as they reach the mat.

“Is it raining now?”

“Yes.”

Root stops walking, the doors closing behind them.

“Well, what are you waiting for, John?” Root asks, her tone impatient. “Let's go.”

At that, Reese chuckles to himself, shaking his head. With his arms wrapped around Root’s shoulders and his wings flaring outward, he teleports them there.

 

 

 


End file.
